


I Guess You Caught Me by Surprise

by Echs



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: And Rekkles can't help but be a little bit nice under that stony exterior, Both just want to go home, Caps is a traveler, Caps is silly as always, Characters are OOC because I suck at making them not OOC., M/M, Mochi is the cutest cat, No Beta we die like G2 internet, Rekkles is a mob boss, Rekkles is gold on league
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29271993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echs/pseuds/Echs
Summary: Caps finds himself lost in the heart of Shanghai, working at a café when one day a bullet and a dangerous blond make his life more of a mess than what it already is.It is lonely in the big city, whether you're a traveler with a fear of being left behind or a mob-boss with regrets and an aching heart.
Relationships: Martin "Rekkles" Larsson/Rasmus "Caps" Winther
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25





	1. Bullet on the Menu

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Fnatic, LEC, G2, or any of the players or the rights to anything. This is pure fanfiction and should be read only as that as this is a fictional story.  
> Warnings: Blood, bullets, swearing, and some hot stuff (wink-wink).
> 
> This was all meant to be a Oneshot but I've decided to do two parts and an epilogue (part two is almost done so expect that whenever it's ready). 
> 
> Feedback is very welcome and appreciated!

Rasmus doesn’t speak a lick of Chinese, yet he finds himself working at a dim sum place for over three months when he should have been back home in Denmark six weeks ago. It’s just that every time he tries to quit, his boss waves it away, repeats in broken English that he doesn’t understand, and throws a cloth at Rasmus— shoos him to go wipe the tables. The place is claustrophobically small, the décor dated, and the taps leak, yet it still has its loyal customers.

Although tonight has been different. It’s ten o’clock, and no drink has been spilled. Mrs. Liang’s hearty laugh doesn’t fill the space, and the two coconut-smelling, Australian backpackers who’ve come here every night for the past week, are strangely gone. The neon sign reads OPEN, yet nobody is here. Rasmus half-wipes the tables, although there is nothing really to wipe. He wonders what Mochi is doing, probably killing a mouse to bring to his doorstep again. Rasmus sighs. Mr. Kim, his boss, as if having teleported from the kitchen, comes up behind him and smacks him on the head, yells something Rasmus doesn’t grasp, but he knows he’s being scolded for something. Rasmus doesn’t know why Mr. Kim hasn’t fired him when he’s clearly not happy with Rasmus’s work ethic. He leans against the bar, watches the dirt under his chewed-up nails, can’t remember the last time they weren’t chipped. Rasmus doesn’t notice the bell above the door ring, doesn’t see the group of ten men step in until the door slams shut and their voices rise. He jolts, surprised but glad that the night has taken a turn for the better. He likes people, likes the noise and fun, but he won’t lie and say he isn’t partial to a break from all the work. They’re dressed in dark colors, variants of suits, probably expensive for all that Rasmus knows. Mr. Kim rushes from the backroom, his apron flying around him— making him look smaller than his five-foot form already is. Rasmus watches his boss extend his hand toward a man in the middle of the group. He doesn’t catch much, as the man is surrounded by an ocean of people. He sees the decline of a handshake and wonders who in their mind would be ballsy enough to disrespect Mr. Kim like that. He won’t lie— anger simmers in his blood at the blatant act of rudeness. Mr. Kim, although a demanding boss, is a nice man who had helped Rasmus when he had nowhere to go. Just as he’s preparing himself to get up in there and tell the man a thing or two, Mr. Kim turns around and seizes his arm— drags him into the kitchen by the front of his already rumpled shirt.

The doors to the kitchen close and Mr. Kim looks him square in the eye ‘No fuck-up! Important businessman!’ and shoves him out the door. The anger seeps out of him. He grasps his little booklet for taking orders tightly. Flicks his pen nervously in his right hand. If Mr. Kim is worried about these men then Rasmus will try to be on his best behavior.  _ Try _ . He moves over as stealthily as he can with his tattered and squeaking sneakers. Says the line his boss taught him without hiccups— staring into his notebook, awaiting their answers with a quickened heartbeat.

‘Sorry but, no Chinese. Do you speak English?’

The accent is evident, although not strong, something in its sing-song way sounds familiar to Rasmus’s ears. 

‘Guess I won’t get to practice my Chinese tonight,’ he murmurs. He knows he’s testing the boundaries of their guest, knows he shouldn’t, but he likes to have a little fun anyway, even if this guy might think he’s tuff enough for the entire city. He’s the funny guy, the clown, and usually, guests enjoy his remarks, well, those who can understand him.

‘I said  _ I _ don’t speak Chinese, but my men  _ do _ ,’ he says. Rasmus looks up for the first time from his notebook, slowly— like the nature explorers on TV do when they’re around the corner from a lion. There’s a hint of a sly smile on the man’s face. He can’t be that much older than Rasmus, although he looks tall from where he sits. His teeth are white, the smile too nice to be genuine. He sits like an adult in his midlife crisis. Rasmus wonders if the guy is trying to appear older than he is, with his suit and all that. The man gestures to the men surrounding him, ‘So, are you gonna work or what?’ 

‘What do you want?’ asks Rasmus, tapping his pen against the paper, trying not to think about the blond man’s well-shaped hair. It’s annoying how effortlessly lain it looks, not like his own crow’s nest.

The man raises an eyebrow, ‘Nope. Try again.’ 

Rasmus feels his mouth fall open uncontrollably. He stops tapping his pen in disbelief— knows he looks like a moron,  _ is being treated like a moron.  _ He gawps as he searches his temporarily scrambled brain for answers. ‘What do you mean  _ try again _ ?’

‘I didn’t think your English would be as bad as your Chinese. Mr. Kim told us you were fluent, are you not?’

‘I am—’

‘What’s so hard to understand then?’ The blond man’s eyes go cold, his sly smile had tricked Rasmus into a sense of familiarity, but the blue eyes aren’t friendly, no, far from. Rasmus feels like an idiot— like he’s failed to uphold the hospitality Mr. Kim had worked so hard for Rasmus to learn. But he can’t take shit he doesn’t deserve, even if his pride will be his downfall.

So, he crosses his tired arms to his chest and sets his eyes on the dickhead guest. ‘My English is fine, don’t worry your little head about that. Maybe you’d like to just let me do my job and tell me what you want to eat? Maybe you’d like a lesson in manners too?’

The smile falls— turns into a set of grimly pressed lips with iced eyes to match. Rasmus believes that if those eyes were the ocean, they’d be the water up at the Arctic. Where freshly sprung tears would freeze at first touch. 

The man flicks open his coat. Moves his hand to a holster on his hips, slow and purposeful, in a way that it almost registers as graceful to Rasmus, who can’t keep his eyes off the movement. 

‘My little what now?’ and yeah, maybe the dangerous tilt to the man’s voice makes Rasmus want to run, but what’s more terrifying is that it makes him want to stay— something that he does  _ not _ want to explore right now. Rasmus feels his breath quicken as he sees the long, pale fingers pull out the gun from the holster.

‘Go on, say it again. Teach me about  _ please _ and thank you’s,’ the man urges him. Rasmus wants to swallow nervously but can’t even close his mouth. From across the table, there’s a gun being pointed at him. At Rasmus, who thought that today’s biggest challenge would be not to fall asleep at work, but now he’s wide awake, maybe even heading for eternal sleep.

‘Say it,’ he commands comfortably from his seat. But Rasmus can’t speak. His men stand up, and it seems as if all eyes are on him, but he’s only concerned with the unwavering coldness coming from the ones ahead of him and the steely gaze from the gun.

Rasmus hears rather than sees Mr. Kim come out of the kitchen. Mr. Kim’s shrill voice cries out. Rasmus closes his eyes and hopes for no pain, hopes Mochi will get fed by kind strangers.

‘Duck!’ Mr. Kim yells, and somehow Rasmus’s body listens. 

There are ripples of gunshots. Rasmus can’t see it. But by the sounds of it the front window is shot to pieces. He opens his eyes as glass covers the ground, tries to scramble to the bar, cuts his fingers on the shattered glass. Someone grabs him firmly by the ankle, Rasmus shakes his leg, but the person won’t let go. He turns his head, sees the blond man clutching his shoulder with his other hand— wounded. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even plead with his eyes. The men from the group, the ones not bleeding, run out of the place, leaving the man alone. Rasmus has no idea why he turns around and starts dragging the man with him— thinks to himself that this is a stupid idea, he doesn’t owe this man a thing. Mr. Kim comes forward from behind the bar, helps the duo get into the kitchen. Outside there are still sounds of gunshots.

‘Take him, out. OUT!’ Mr. Kim pushes Rasmus and the man past the fryers and boiling broth pots, out the backdoor. Rasmus’s heart thuds like a concert in his ears.

‘Where?’ he asks, voice strained, hands shaking.

‘Go!’ Mr. Kim slams the backdoor.

Rasmus feels the heavy weight of the blond man over his shoulder. Wonders, if the man is even carrying a bit of his own weight or if he’s laid it all on him. There is shouting from around the corner, tires screeching and another two shots that are fired. Rasmus isn’t strong, doesn’t consider himself the athletic type, not by a long shot. The last time he did something remotely athletic was when he ran to catch the gate to his flight to Singapore. So when he hears the rolling wheels of a car making its way around the corner, he doesn’t think twice about taking ahold of the bleeding man’s waist. With a tight grip, they both run, as good as running can get when you’re carrying an extra eighty (if he had to guess) kilos or so on you. They manage to get around the corner just as Rasmus spots the headlights of a car from his peripheral

‘Fucking go,’ says the man.

His breath is constant on Rasmus’s neck, unsteady. It’s wet between their arms— he doesn’t want to think about the blood lost, mostly because he can’t really handle the sight of blood for long. ‘I am, or do you want me to dump your body and go faster solo?’ Rasmus fights back because, honestly, he’s dealing with a lot more than he gets paid for. Tonight has gone anything but smoothly, and all he wants is his microwavable chicken and rice. The guy shuts up, much to Rasmus’s delight.

They soldier on, the blond man moving his head left and right, murmuring under his breath. Rasmus catches a few words, some in English, some not. Rasmus knows he’s found his street when the familiar faded smell of freshly baked bread finds his nose. 

After traveling three flights up very slowly, Rasmus tries to fish the key out of his pocket. It’s as silent as Shanghai gets in the night. Apart from the constant noise from cars, and the distant sound of barking dogs, all that can be heard on the third floor is Rasmus and the stranger’s heavy breaths. He maybe moves around a bit too much as he searches for the key, the man groans and says under his breath: ‘Jävla skit.’

Rasmus rolls his eyes, ‘Swedish?’

The guy looks at Rasmus, no emotion evident in his eyes, doesn’t even offer an answer. ‘Should have known,’ he continues, ‘We’re neighbors you know,’ is all he says, as he opens the beaten-up door and lets them in. He groans as he detaches the key from the lock, feels slightly faint at the bloodstains covering it, most likely from his cut-up hands. Mochi greats them first thing, rounds up on Rasmus’s leg, and purrs. It’s the hearty hello after a long day that he needs right now. The guy closes the door and holds his hand out to Rasmus.

‘What?’

‘The key,’ he demands.

‘The key,’ Rasmus says, not really registering what’s going on.

The man huffs and takes the key out of Rasmus’s open hand before he even has a chance to react. He locks the door and pockets the key into his own trousers. Rasmus protests, but the guy just shrugs his shoulders and winces. It brings Rasmus back to reality, back to the gunshot currently taking up residency in the blond’s shoulder.

‘We should probably look at that, or maybe you should? I don’t handle blood well—’

‘Where’s your bathroom?’ The guy cuts through.

Rasmus points to the door on the other side of the small corridor, kicks a few stuff, like his dirty t-shirt and his now discarded over-worn sneakers out of the way as they head toward it.

He opens the door for his guest, winces a bit as it hits him that he doesn’t even know the person’s name. ‘There you go. I only have like, one towel, so if you need a shower please don’t bleed all over it.’ He turns to leave for the kitchen, Mochi making affectionate noises at his feet. She’s always a suck-up this close to her night feed.

The guy seizes him by the arm ‘No, get in here,’ and yanks him into the bathroom with him.

They end up facing each other. Blondie sits on the lid of the toilet with his shirt discarded. Rasmus wonders how someone with such boney knees can look so imposing as their knees press together in the tight space. The edge of the sink presses hard into Rasmus’s lower back. He doesn’t always wish for bigger accommodation since there’s never a reason for it, but things can change. Right now, he wishes he had a bathroom the size of a small park. Somehow, he’s been persuaded into washing the bullet wound. Although he’s pretty sure persuasion usually involves some form of convincing talks and not just someone shoving a wetted towel and some soap into your hands.

‘You want me to…this? Right here?’

The man sighs and looks up at Rasmus with tired eyes. ‘What do you think?’

Rasmus mumbles a  _ yes sir _ under his breath. He doesn’t have time to admire or even properly register the littered artwork across the guy’s arms before he shuts his eyes. As he brings the towel to the wounded area, a hand grabs his— pushes it solidly onto the wound. Rasmus doesn’t dare open his eyes— afraid of whatever might be going on. He feels a second hand come up next to his by the wound, hears a silent hiss from the blond’s mouth that was probably not meant to be heard by anyone, but here they are. There’s more pushing, a wet sound, and then a sigh of relief coming from the man as some movement passes the side of Rasmus and metal clinks into the sink behind him. His grip is stuck to the towel. He feels all the blood rush out of his head as he puts two and two together. He shouldn’t open his eyes, no he really shouldn’t, but he needs to confirm his suspicions. 

Both their hands are covered in blood, the man’s shoulder has a gaping hole from which dark red liquid trickles down onto Rasmus’s only towel. He feels like laughing, that kind of laugh you make before throwing up, feels a strange sensation of trapped air leaving his lungs. He thinks of how curiosity killed the cat and how it might just do so to him as the world turns a spotted black. He feels his knees give way as his eyes shut to greet the dark.


	2. Who Ordered Tall, Handsome, and Blond?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staying in a cramped space with a mobster sure isn't what Rasmus thought was on the menu for tonight, but he'll have to deal with it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the 2nd Chapter! I tried to edit it on Grammarly but the website was lagging. If there are any suggestions for what you guys like/don't like please let me know, same as for what works what doesn't. I should let this chapter sit for a day or two, but I'm just excited to get it out, so be prepared for some blunders lol.
> 
> PS. Caps has like 0 sense for danger in this fic lol.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

Rasmus wakes to trudging paws digging into his chest. He lets his limbs drag him further into the softness of his bedsheets, ends up feeling like a leaded block, thinks he can stay here for days. Although, then the smell of re-heated chicken hits his nostrils, and his stomach starts to rumble. He lifts Mochi off him, sits up in bed, and swings his legs over the black covers as good as he can, still feeling inhumanly heavy. Rasmus rubs at his eyes with closed fists, stretches, and yawns, thinks about the number of dishes he will have to do at work and how tiring it will all be on his already aching muscles. Then it all comes back. He stops rubbing at his eyes, looks around the room for the person in question. When he finds him, he jolts out of surprise.

The man smiles slightly,  _ if  _ Rasmus can even call that a smile. ‘So, you really don’t like blood, do you?’

Rasmus feels heat rising to his cheeks. ‘No, I don’t. I… I thought I dreamt all this, Mr. Kim’s restaurant, the gun, the  _ blood _ .’

The man is sitting on the chair by his laptop and desk. The chair came with the place when Mr. Kim leased it to him. It is old and squeaks when the man leans back onto it. ‘You thought you dreamt me up?’

Rasmus fights to find words,  _ any words _ , but his mind and mouth are treacherous beings that fail to assist him in any way, might as well be feeders in his ranked games. After a painful couple of seconds of silence, Rasmus manages a quiet yes, which Blondie takes too much pride in by the look of the widening smile that Rasmus still isn’t too sure about.

‘No— more like a nightmare, very  _ bad  _ nightmare,’ he backs up once his brain rejoins his tongue in an effort to avoid any further embarrassment.

A slight incline of a head and a slowly rising eyebrow is all he receives in return for his rambling. Rasmus sighs, shakes his head and moves to stand up. He stretches his arms into the air, pushes his head back, and listens to his body crack. He catches a glimpse of the dark night from his window when he relaxes his body into its usual stance. The dusty curtains have been drawn shut, but then there's a small part open given vision over the streetlight below.

‘Afraid of groupies?’ he says and nods his head to the still shirtless man.

Blondie is too busy inspecting his own shoulder to even bother looking at Rasmus. ‘Something like that,’ is all he offers.

Rasmus hums in agreement, doesn’t push the point further, he finds himself too tired. He figures he must’ve not slept for long— finds his eyes wandering onto the exposed top-half of the mystery man. Unlike before, he can actually take in the black and grey artwork. There seems to be a clear motif. His arms are littered with everything from mythological gods, to fish, it doesn't look like those tattoos random travelers get when they’re in Bali in their twenties. No, it looks thought-out, planned. Rasmus thinks there’s something very methodical about the man in front of him. The way he prepares and plans, his stoic manners, and how he hasn’t shared a single thing about himself yet here he is in Rasmus’ home, probably having watched him sleep. Rasmus scrunches his face, dislikes the thought of a stranger—  _ a stranger with a gun _ , having watched him sleep.

Rasmus takes notice of the tiny desk lamp lighting up the neatly done crisscrossing of green thread stitched onto the blond man's shoulder. Rasmus’ eyes widen in surprise. ‘You did that yourself?’ 

‘Just finished,’ he says, pointing to the familiar sewing kit resting on the tattered desk.

‘You used my kit? That was a present from Mrs. Liang!’

Rasmus rushes over to the desk and manhandles the surprisingly neatly laid leftover thread into his hand, successfully fisting it into a ball. He glares at the man in front of him, unwillingly he notes how close they’re standing as the man stands up, his naked chest imposing on Rasmus’ vision. 

‘I do cross-stitches with this! Man, have you ever taught about asking before you do something? And why do I smell chicken? Did you eat my dinner?’ Rasmus stares into the icy blue eyes. The iris is surrounded by a spray of brown warmth, somewhere deep in Rasmus’s mind he is reminded of the word  _ mutation, _ from biology classes in school, but throws it away. Escapes from places of the past like he flees from everything and everyone around him. Austria to Singapore, from city to jungle, Rasmus tries to leave bad memories and places, attempts to discard friends and family before they do it to him.

‘I microwaved it for the cat, you really eat that?’ The blond’s sing-song voice brings Rasmus back to the paper mâché-like walls of the apartment. The eyes gazing down on him hold a playfulness to them, Rasmus forgets to be angry for a second.

‘Maybe,’ he murmurs, stomach growling. ‘Still, you should have waited until I woke up, and then asked.’

Blondie is standing so close now that Rasmus can smell a mixture of sweat and copper from him. There’s all but a few centimeters of space between them— Rasmus feels his heart race faster than at the gunned down restaurant. From here he can feel the heat coming off the half-naked man’s body, can memorize the outline of his muscles if the universe just gives him a few more minutes. He feels a hot breath on his cheek, sees a slender finger reach out before he closes his eyes. The heated pad of a finger is placed on the underside of his chin. Rasmus feels his head being pushed up, steady and slow, braces himself in anticipation for the unnamed emotions making his blood pulsate.

‘You should get us something to eat, my treat.’

The blond’s finger falls away from his chin as if it’s never been there. Rasmus opens his eyes and sighs. ‘You never apologize, do you?’

He smiles wide, teeth shiny, the corners a bit sharp. Rasmus imagines a jaguar in front of him and suddenly can’t displace the two images from one another. ‘Depends…’

Rasmus rolls his eyes. ‘On what?’

The Swede just smirks and hands him a handful of notes. ‘Nothing spicy, alright?’

Rasmus moves to the hallway to put on his shoes, ‘Devil’s ball juice, I get it,’ he jokes.

The man squeezes past him and heads into the bathroom. ‘I’m going to shower.’ 

Rasmus grits his teeth, the man never asks. Demanding is not enough of a word to describe him.

‘You don’t have a towel though?’ he shoots back.

‘Hasn’t stopped me before.’

‘Whatever. Hey, where’s my keys anyways?’

The bathroom door opens, and a set of keys fly toward him. He catches it one-handed, is a bit bummed that there’s nobody to commentate on his god-like reflexes but nonetheless closes the door softly behind him as he leaves for the nearest shop.

He’s standing in a small corner shop, in one hand he has plain chicken noodles, and in the other spicy. Rasmus feels a sweat breaking out on his forehead, he’s picking food for a guy that he doesn’t even know. Who cares if Rasmus doesn’t remember if he likes it hot or not when he doesn’t even know his name! The adrenaline from the whole night has dissipated and the lack of fear and worry that it had suppressed has come to boil. He’s left his home in the hands of a stranger, thinks his stupidity and easy trusting nature has finally reached new heights. His heart bangs hard against his ribcage like an angry landlord banging a door demanding rent money. Things pass in a blur as he moves from the aisle to the till, and home. He thinks about Mochi’s safety, thinks about his belongings, his  _ passport _ , but remembers in his mind’s rush that he’d lost it as soon as he’d arrived here, and hasn’t gotten a new one yet. Rasmus’s fingers shake as he unlocks the faded and chipped door, rushes inside not knowing what to expect.

What he doesn’t expect as he reaches his living area is for the stranger to be lounging on his bed, legs dangling over the side as he’s talking quietly into the phone while Mochi sits, swiping at his foot. Rasmus’s body goes slack. He squares his shoulders, ready to have that awkward conversation of  _ you’re a stranger and you should get out _ , that he meant to have after the whole bathroom surgery ordeal but didn’t happen, and now it is too  _ awkward _ , plus, Rasmus might,  _ might _ admit to being a sucker for the guy’s modelesque features, and the slight danger vibe, which makes this even harder. As he opens his mouth the blond meets his eyes and puts a slender, long, finger to his own mouth. Quiet. Yeah, he will be quiet, and so dies the argument that Rasmus has been building up for a while. It seeps out his fingers and into his laptop as he loads up the League client.

He’s in-between basing and eating the microwaved spicy noodles— doesn’t fully pay notice to the lurking going on behind him as Zed shadows out of a bush and kills him, he slams his fist on the desk and yells at the grey screen in his mother tongue.

‘Sucks,’ the blond says.

Caps sighs and straightens his back, trying to focus on the game with a spectator. It is harder said than done as the guy keeps interrupting, asking questions like who’s he? When pointing at Draven. What’s that?  _ Dragon. _ Rasmus finds it more endearing than annoying that the tattooed man is taking interest in the game. So much so, that the man’s face is almost as close to the screen as Rasmus’. He notices something strange on the guy’s upper body.

‘Hey, is that mine?’ he says, pointing to the shirt.

The guy stands up straight, pulling along the hem of the grey t-shirt. ‘Don’t do that, you’ll stretch it,’ says Rasmus.

The guy huffs, ‘I mean, it needs to be stretched. Feels like I’m getting hugged by a cobra.’

Rasmus ignores him, doesn’t want to think about when the guy could have possibly been hugged by a cobra. He turns back to his game just as the nexus explodes. It’s a loss. He gets up, rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

‘So, about you staying here—’

‘Can I try?’ the man interrupts, gesturing at the game.

‘Yes, but, wait. Look, you can’t stay… _ here _ . I mean, if I knew you then, yeah, that would be okay, but I don’t. I don’t even know your  _ name _ , and let’s be real, you were a bit of a dick to me a couple of hours ago, and I know you got shot and that you need help but—’

The man clasps a hand over Rasmus’ mouth, the pressure is firm, hand cold, no hesitation in his movement. ‘Your mouth is too big for your own good. Disrespect me again and I won’t give you the courtesy of a warning,’ he threatens, other hand sliding to cup his holster where Rasmus can see the outline of the same gun that was pointed at him in the café. The café, Rasmus has completely forgotten about Mr. Kim. He hangs his head in shame as the hand slips from his lips.

He continues his rambling with no regard to the threat of the gun, ‘Mr. Kim’s place is a wreck and some scary people are probably out for you which means they’re out for me— oh my god, what about Mochi? Will they hurt her?’

Rasmus doesn’t notice that he’s being shoved into the small kitchenette during his rant, he doesn’t register the pressure on his lower back until the man lets go and spins him around, staring him dead in the face with his imposing blue eyes.

‘You, make me dinner, I’ll make a phone call.’

‘But—’

The man shoves yet another finger in his face. ‘Don’t speak. Just do it.’

Rasmus feels the defeat in his sagged shoulders harder than his defeat on the rift. He murmurs in agreement, feeling like protesting will only get him closer to being six feet into the dirt.

‘Good boy,’ he winks, and leaves Rasmus and the microwave to their own devices. Rasmus decides to ignore the heat from his blushing cheeks as he turns to Mochi and swears under his breath about blond boys and demanding assholes.

Rasmus is waiting for the microwave to ping. He’s watching Mochi lick her paws as she is staring out the rainy window. The insulation is so bad that the rain sound carries all the way into the apartment and so does the cold air of the night. Mochi meows now and again, demanding pets from Rasmus. It’s been only a few minutes, which Rasmus has spent the majority of swearing under his breath at the Swede, refusing to cook. But then he thought about his mother and what she has taught him about manners, and so here he is, purposefully overcooking noodles for a bossy dickhead. Rasmus knows his mom would chastise him if she could, but there is a reason why he’s on the other side of the world and not at home right now. But he doesn’t want to think of that, doesn’t want to imagine what he’s left at home. Instead, he moves away from Mochi and stares into the spinning bowl in the microwave. This whole night has been spinning. Nothing that has happened makes any sense to Rasmus, until the microwave pings and he takes it out, stirring. He thinks back to the empty restaurant, to the strangeness of it all. Mindlessly he makes his way into his living quarters, dodging piles of clothes left and right.

‘No, I’ll say the time and place.’ The blond runs his hand through his drying hair. Rasmus notes with glee that it isn’t as stylish anymore but then frowns as he realizes that the bastard still looks good.

The guy rubs at his chin with one hand. He looks tired, Rasmus thinks, as he watches him lean his head to squeeze the phone between his shoulder and ear. ‘I’ll tell you when I know I can trust you,’ he says, and hangs up.

‘Exes huh?’ says Rasmus and offers the bowl of chicken and noodles to the guy.

‘…I don’t have exes,’ is all that the Swede offers. He takes a bite of the noodles, gently placing them back onto the desk.

Rasmus isn’t surprised, a guy that looks this good never ties down. He feels a twinge of disappointment, lays down on his bed, burying his head into the covers, but finds to his annoyance that it smells of the freshly showered guy, and groans in annoyance. Rasmus doesn’t answer— feels like he is sixteen and at an awkward school disco where the boys won’t ask the girls to dance.

‘My employee,’ the line is offered to him as a lifeline, ‘he’s the one that set up the meeting at Mr. Kim’s.'

Rasmus grasps the line with eagerness ‘So you don’t know if he staged the drive-by or not?’ He doesn’t look up from where he lays buried, hears the chair squeak, and after a few seconds feels the backend of the bed dip.

‘You’ve been listening in on my calls.’ It’s a statement, Rasmus notices and frowns.

‘No, I haven't. It’s quite easy when you think of it. Mr. Kim’s restaurant was unusually empty, I mean, we are usually packed with locals on Friday nights. I think the only reason it was empty was for you to be a sitting duck.’

Rasmus feels a knee pressing into his side. ‘Go on,’ the guy urges.

Rasmus thinks about Mr. Kim’s words, the  _ important businessman _ , and can’t help but conclude the worst. ‘You’re some sort of mobster, aren’t you?’

‘CEO of an international trades center,’ the Swede says. Rasmus can tell the phrase is practiced by the ease in which it flows out of the guy.

Rasmus rolls out from his hiding spot, lays flat on his back— turns his head to watch the blond. ‘Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Someone wants you dead, and they clearly planned for it.’

‘Not well enough,’ he says.

Rasmus sighs. ‘Back to window, should have been easy. I mean, you weren’t expecting it.’

‘Should have been, but I got lucky.’

‘Either that or they missed on purpose, the restaurant took more bullets than you.’

The blond moves closer, leans in, almost hovers over Rasmus who lays frozen on his back, not knowing what to expect. The blond raises an eyebrow, an unmissable prod for Rasmus to continue his theories. ‘What? I have to know more to deduce more…’ He knows it’s a transparent act to learn more, but shoots his shot anyway.

The Swede watches him almost surgically. Rasmus feels like his whole soul is being picked apart, feels like no nook and cranny can hide anything from this guy. He swallows nervously, an involuntary action. He suspects that this is a starving man, and Rasmus is a few wrong steps away from being today’s special on the menu.

After what feels like minutes, which it probably has been, the Swede gives him an answer. ‘We weren’t the only ones expected at Mr. Kim’s.’

‘Oh, come on! I need more,’ Rasmus complains, crossing his arms defiantly.

‘You’re childish.’

‘And you’re acting like a word costs you twenty dollars.’

The guy stands. ‘Conversation over,’ he decides.

Rasmus reaches out and closes his hands around his tattooed wrist- thinks about what little information he’s been given. He feels the guy’s bones and muscles flex. Rasmus drops the arm, doesn’t want to push things too far. ‘Sorry,’ he offers.

Rasmus gets nothing in return. ‘You had a meeting planned, right?’ He’s met with silence, doesn’t pay too much attention to it. ‘Look, You don’t have to tell me anything but it sounds like to me that maybe you were going to strike a deal with someone, and that maybe there’s someone out there that didn’t like it, but wasn’t willing to kill you for it, instead sent a bullet your way to scare you.’

‘You’ve got a wild imagination,’ says the Swede and turns, heading for the desk and chair.

‘Wild or not, I would assume that someone in the  _ international trades business _ doesn’t shoot like a noob. I mean every bullet missed except for _one_ , how likely is that?’ 

Rasmus watches the blond sit down onto the chair, pressing the PLAY button on the client. ‘Noob?’ he asks without turning around.

‘Newbie, rookie, whatever,’ says Rasmus, frowning. He can't believe the guy is focusing on the insult rather than his theory.

When there’s no response and he sees the guy hovering with the mouse over which position to chose Rasmus loses his patience and chooses to help this noob with his first game of League.

Rasmus checks his phone. It’s four-thirty in the morning and he’s wrapped up in bed, having almost lost the will to live while watching the blond play his first two games. Mochi has padded into the room and is lying nestled next to the mousepad, sleeping soundly. Rasmus watches the stranger in his room— thinks the stranger is so absorbed in the game he’s forgotten that Rasmus is here, wide-awake. The guy becomes more animated when he forgets his surroundings, he makes noises, swears, bounces his leg in anticipation, or maybe stress. Rasmus finds that he likes to watch it, likes to see the competitive drive in other people. But most of all he likes seeing the stony persona unfold, even though it isn’t really for him. Rasmus almost feels bad for watching. He pulls the covers higher, shoves his phone more into his face, but it doesn’t help. His eyes keep wandering, making him wonder why he’s so enthralled with this person. Why has he even let him into his home? The obvious answer is because Mr. Kim told him to, and this was the only way to pay him back for what he's done for Rasmus.  Although there might be more to it. He thinks that maybe his life on the road has lacked some excitement lately. The monotonous schedule of waking up, working, coming home, has been tiring, but he’s had no other choice. With money low and no passport, he’s been stuck in this place for too long with no real escape. But then he thinks of how he wanted this, wanted to run from home because home was changing, and so were the people around him. Rasmus might be crazy but letting this mobster into his life might be the closest thing to fun and excitement he’s had in ages. He watches the blond stroke the back of the cat, his slender hand slides smoothly across the back of Mochi’s black fur. He feels a smile tugging at his lips, the first one of the day as he watches Mochi’s paws move in her sleep and the stranger waiting for the grey screen to turn colorful.

‘I’m glad I let you stay,’ he murmurs, not expecting the blond to hear him.

‘ _ Let _ is generous. I more or less had to force you,’ says the guy.

Rasmus feels his cheeks get warm ‘Shut up, I’m being nice.’

‘Sure you are, now go to sleep— big day tomorrow.’

Rasmus stretches, arches his back like a bridge underneath the covers. He yawns, not willing to question tomorrow's adventure. ‘Okay, stranger.’

Just as sleep comes to take him he hears the faintest of words. Rasmus thinks it sounds like  _ It’s Martin _ , but then again it could just be the stress from the day he’s had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up. I'm beginning chapter 3 now, which will have more things happening than just Caps and Rekkles in a room for hours xD. Basically, more action scenes as things will go down and some heated stuff. Just gotta figure out how to write it well. Either way, hope you guys have enjoyed reading this so far.


	3. A Tall Order for a Newbie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rasmus does some charity work concerning one blond and dangerous fellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, so I initially wanted to post a 5000k chapter but since the very last part is taking ages to get right I've decided to just post this which will give me more time to work on the rest and less guilt about leaving this unposted xD.
> 
> Warnings are: Violence and Shitty Writing

Rasmus wakes up to the bed dipping— feels a warm and solid presence across his chest. He reaches out to feel Mochi’s soft fur between his fingers. However, what he touches might be warm but, it’s far from furry and soft. Rasmus opens his eyes and sees the tattooed arm of the stranger on his chest. Warm puffs of air hit the top of his head, Rasmus goes tense trying to remember the last time he shared a bed with someone— thanks all the gods that he didn’t undress in his sleep like he usually does. He thinks of how he hasn’t shared a bed since that blurry night in Austria, wishes he could remember more than the taste of tequila in the back of his mouth. He doesn’t drink often, would rather take a mocktail over any other drink at a bar but that night had been his first step into independence. The cover is stretched tightly around him, he lifts his head up and sees a clad leg slung over his lower half and figures that the blond never fully got under the covers. Still, Rasmus feels that the situation is awkward—he doesn't mind the bedsharing, but he would rather not want the Swede to think he's the boss in Rasmus' home, even though he might have given that impression early on. Rasmus sees Mochi tread her way up the covers, he dislodges his arm from where it's trapped underneath its cover and carefully strokes the cat along her back. Mochi purrs, stretches, and digs her claws into the fabric. Rasmus watches as she inches closer to the guy in his bed— her pink nose twitching as she inspects him. A visitor must be something new for her too. Rasmus thinks back to how he found her on the streets, unwashed and small. It makes his heart clench. 

'Once this all over I'll buy you some nice fish,' he promises. The man next to him jolts awake, sits up in bed, draws his gun from somewhere too quick for Rasmus to see, and points it at him. Mochi scurries off the bed faster than Rasmus can blink. The man looks wild, hair messed in different directions, shirt rumpled. 

'Hey, you alright?' Rasmus asks, treading carefully on his words. Their eyes meet— for a second Rasmus doesn't recognize the blue eyes. They're distant, someone else’s. The Swede puts the gun down, rests it on top of Rasmus while he rubs at his chin.

'Forgot where I was' He says it as if it explains everything, but it doesn't, and Rasmus is getting quite tired of having a gun pointed at him. 

'Yeah? Well what happens if you remember too late? You'll put a bullet in my head?' The Swede's eyebrows furrow. He opens his mouth, ready to say something but Rasmus gets to it first as he sits up.

'I don't care about what you have to say for yourself, but my bed is a gun free zone. So, the next time you pull a gun on me you better shoot or I'll make you wish you had.' The threat feels foreign in his mouth— tastes weird on his tongue. His heart is beating fast and loud in his ears, blood pumping him full of adrenaline from the constant resurge of danger. Rasmus figures it can't be healthy, feeling like this all the time– wonders how the blond manages to live like this, thinks that he doesn't want this for himself.

The blond sighs, his shoulders fall. Rasmus would like to think the guy looks week, but that’s not it. Although being tired, the man looks as powerful as he did when he sat, legs splayed, at the café. No, what’s different is the tired eyes, and the slight fear, which he reads in the other's gaze. Rasmus extends his hand in a silent request— hopes the man will understand.

They stare at each other, the cars outside driving by loudly, pigeons almost rising above the noise as they fly by. Rasmus is lost for a second in those icy blue eyes, forgets about reality for a while.

‘The gun,’ he says with finality. He breaks the stare, lets his gaze wander down to Blondie’s hand.

He hears a sigh, watches those slender fingers wrap even tighter around the grip. Rasmus’s shoulders deflate, he moves to get out of the bed, the cover falling off him when a hand shoots out and puts a steady weight on his thigh. He looks up, mouth hanging open, ready to question the move, but he has no time as the gun is laid, heavy and warm in his hands.

‘Thank you,’ he whispers.

‘Just don’t let me down,’ says the blond, eyes moving from the gun. His gaze travels up Rasmus’ body, slow and burning. Rasmus feels like flames are engulfing him, feels like the hand that was placed on his thigh with determination is leaving an imprint on his skin.

‘I won’t,’ he says. Their eyes meet once again, and Rasmus can’t help but think that that’s one promise he will do better to keep than break.

The man’s hand disappears from his thigh, it somehow sends an involuntary shiver down his spine. Rasmus feels the ever-so-familiar oncoming heat traveling to the top of his cheeks. He swears under his breath as the Swede exits, climbing over him smelling of Rasmus’ bed. He hates that he’s blushed more times in twenty-four hours than he ever has in his life and hates even more that it happens from anything from the man’s presence to a simple touch.

‘We should get something to eat,’ the man says, just as Rasmus’ stomach rumbles, ‘and maybe make a plan for tonight,’ he adds.

Rasmus rises out of bed, stretches his arms over his head as he asks, ‘what’s happening tonight?’

The blond smirks. ‘Shit’s going down, newbie.’

Rasmus is standing around the corner of a major shopping street holding two milkshakes, tapping his foot rapidly onto the pavement as he sucks the almost ambiguously vanilla-flavored milk from the straw. In front of him, the blond is whispering down the phone in Chinese. Rasmus doesn’t catch a lot, mostly because he doesn’t understand, and partly because he’s trying to make it look like he isn’t listening when he really is. They’ve been standing here for five minutes, Rasmus watching people pass by, carrying bags from places like Gucci and Louis Vuitton. He kicks the back of the blond’s shoe but gets no response. Rasmus rolls his eyes, expecting to stand on the curb and window-shop until his hair turns grey. A couple of seconds pass and then there’s a warm and tight grip around his wrist, pulling him into a shop.

Rasmus’s arms are dying from the heavy suits he is carrying over his shoulder. His newly styled hair feels strange on his head, when he looks at his reflection in the mirrored wall of the hotel lobby he gets an itch in his fingers, wants to drag them through his hair and mess it up. But then he turns to look at the blond, who smiles, although briefly, when he’s looking him up and down.

‘You’ll look good in that,’ he says.

Rasmus just shrugs, turns his head so that the other guy can’t see the growing redness that is undoubtedly on his face.

‘Let’s just check in,’ he murmurs.

The man puts a hand on the small of his back and leads them both to the reception, The building isn’t the fanciest one Rasmus has seen, it’s got yellowed wallpaper peeling off at the corners of the room, and vending machine probably older than Rasmus himself, containing nothing but nuts and off-brand energy drinks. There are a few people in the lobby, an old lady and her husband, and what looks like a cleaner shooing a cat. But aside from that, it's quiet. Rasmus stands aside, listening to his friend, well he supposes he has to call him a  _ friend _ at this point because they’ve spent more time together than Rasmus has with his actual friends in months, as he speaks Chinese. He can’t help but admire how it flows easily from the other’s tongue. Can’t help how he stares as if he hasn’t had the privilege of ever hearing a foreign language on someone else’s tongue. He should feel ashamed for being so blatantly into the mysterious man, he really should, but he doesn’t have time as the blond turns to him and gestures for him to follow.

The room is small with a dinky bed in the middle. The wallpaper is a copy of that in the lobby, with the addition of what Rasmus thinks to be damp stains or well _ hopes _ that it is anyways. They find a rattrap in the bathroom, the blond wrinkles his nose cutely, but Rasmus doesn’t say much— has lived in worse places before.

‘Alright, so remind me, why are we here and not somewhere,’ he pauses, searching for a more appropriate word than  _ expensive _ , but doesn’t get a chance as the Swede interrupts.

‘My penthouse isn’t safe right now, but I’ll take you there later if you’d like.’

Rasmus almost chokes on his own spit, turning inevitably hot. He coughs to cover it up, slamming his fist on his chest for emphasis. ‘I bet the view is nice,’ he squeezes out, eyes tearing from the choking.

The blond chuckles. ‘I’m not taking you there for the view,’ he says. His smile is dangerous, promises nothing good. Rasmus can’t help the shiver that runs through his whole body. He tries to calm his heart by changing the subject.

‘You wanted to teach me something, you said, earlier?’

The blond puts his hands together behind his back, swings a bit on the heels of his very fancy shoes. ‘Strip,’ he commands.

‘Wh-what right here?’ Rasmus’s face gets impossibly hotter, the universe gives him no break as the blond moves a few steady paces toward him in the hotel room that is starting to feel impossibly smaller.

The blond stops. ‘Although I’d love a show, I don’t think we have time for one,’ he says, giving Rasmus a serious look, lips stretched into a thin line, yet his eyes tell a different story. Rasmus cannot make sense of this guy, not for all the suits in China. 

He takes one of the lighter bags off the bed says: ‘I’ll change in the, uh, bathroom, yeah the bathroom.’ Rasmus rushes into the cramped space and slams the door behind him. All he hears is laughter from the other side. He shakes his head, an uncontainable smile spreads across his face.

It takes him a few minutes, longer than he’d like to admit, but in the end he walks out of the bathroom feeling like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. 

‘What do you think?’ He puts his hands in the pocket of the new trousers–winces as his nail catches the soft inside of it, doesn't feel comfortable wearing something that probably costs more than all the clothes he owns combined. Not that he would know, as the Swede had refused to let him know the price of anything but the haircut. Rasmus had suggested that he'd pay him back, but the Swede just stared at him until he shut up, which he eventually did.

'I think,' the blond says as he slowly circles him, 'you look wrong,' he deadpans. 

'Wrong? Really? You spent how much money on this suit, and I look wrong in it?' Rasmus takes his hand out of his pocket and flips him off. He moves across the room— sits down on the bed— feels the springs pop and bend as he puts his elbows to his knees. A shadow casts over him but doesn't look up from where he's staring at the floor.

'What does wrong even mean?' he mumbles, knows he's being childish— but the other man is being an asshole. Neatly styled blonde hair intrudes upon his vision, smells of pine and all the things he can’t have right now. 

Two fingers are placed on the underside of his chin, he feels his head being pushed up. The blue eyes of the stranger pierce into his. ‘You’re still pretty though.’ The blond man’s smirk is flirtatious, everything about him is, but Rasmus doesn’t know if he wants to be with a dangerous guy like Blondie.

'Whatever,' says Rasmus and gets up. 

The blond follows suit and stands in front of him. 'Alright then, let me show you how a real CEO does it.’

Rasmus gulps at the feeling of heavy hands dragging him back by his shoulders.

They’re in the lobby, waiting behind a plant for two limos to arrive. Caps is checking his hair in the reflection of the windows, moving a single hair at a time. Blondie smacks his hand away.

‘Stop doing that,’

Rasmus crosses his arms over his chest. ‘How will this even work? They’ll see right through me—’

Blondie swats at his arms. ‘You’ll be fine. Just do that I showed you.’

He says it with such finality that Rasmus doesn’t question it anymore. ‘So, I just walk in there and—’ He fumbles with his words, loses confidence again—sighs.

The guy grabs him by the shoulders, shakes him. ‘You walk in there like you own the entire world, like nobody can touch you—and I swear that nobody will question your stance. People will look twice— out of fear and admiration, they will whisper and talk but you won’t listen, because you’re me, remember?’

Rasmus looks into confident blue eyes, blown away by the trust and belief that the guy hold for him, thinks maybe his new friend is stupid to trust him this early on. But Rasmus hasn’t betrayed him yet, hasn’t shoved him away. ‘I’m you. I’m a rich  _ ceo _ — I don’t care about anyone but my business and myself. Nobody can touch me,’ he says with conviction, almost believing it.

The blond’s fingers dig deeper into his shoulders. ‘Is that what you think of me?’

‘It’s what I used to think.’ He answers honestly, doesn’t want to lie hours before his possible death. 

‘And now, what do you think of me now?’ The fingers on his shoulders go rigid— tense.

Two horns blow, Rasmus knows it’s their rides. He shakes off the hands on his shoulders, grabs at the lapels of his suit with both hands, and shakes out any crevasses that might exist, although there are probably none on the perfectly fitted suit. The blond looks disappointed, but Rasmus chooses not to answer anyways because if he does, he might swim in bottomless waters from which there is no return.

It’s dark in the car, with a strong smell of new leather. Rasmus misses the familiarity of his apartment, the soft fur of Mochi, even the horrible buzzing sound from his minifridge. Although the seating is comfortable Rasmus feels anything but comfortable. But he repeats the lessons in his mind like a mantra. Feels the pale, slender fingers and the warm heavy hands pressed into the insides of his thighs, spreading his legs apart as if he were back in the hotel room. He opens his legs, feels the slight stretch of the fabric against his skin as he practices the position that the blond taught him. He knows his role— practiced it for two hours. Knows he is supposed to walk in like a boss, order Blondie’s choice of drink,  _ Tom Collins _ , wait like the bait he is. Because that’s all Rasmus is, a bait, possibly giving his life for this operation. He hasn’t felt this alive in a long time. He laughs, thinks of how ironic it is to feel alive so close to death.

After thirty or so minutes the limo stops. He knows it’s time, knows that the second he steps out of the limo he has to turn into someone else, has to be whatever is needed. Rasmus has no qualms with that, has been a shapeshifter his whole life. The mobile phone in his pocket vibrates with the only number in the phone book flashing on the screen.

‘Hello?’

‘You nervous?’

Rasmus laughs, voice shaking just a bit, hopes the blond doesn’t notice. ‘Me? Scared? Never.’

There’s silence on the other end— he caves. ‘A little. Are you?’

The blond laughs, it makes Rasmus feel warm all over. There’s a sigh that follows the laugh. Rasmus's brows furrow. ‘Sometimes,’ is all he gets in response.

It’s an answer that Rasmus doesn’t expect, but it’s there and it’s honest. They share silence for a few minutes until the Swede breaks it.

‘You got your ID?’

Rasmus curses under his breath. ‘I uh, sort of lost it, like three months ago.’

‘How do you even— nevermind.’

Rasmus blurts it out before he can stop himself. ‘You think I’ve spent three months in Shanghai by choice? I haven’t been able to go home and—’

‘Just go inside, I need to make some calls,’ the blond cuts him short. 

The line goes dead, Rasmus feels like he’s been hung on a line like wet laundry waiting to dry. He doesn’t enjoy the hot and cold moments, doesn’t like not knowing where he has the man. Sometimes it seems as if he cares, other times— like the present, it feels as if he is someone disposable. Although, he shouldn’t be surprised, having only known the many for a day and a half. It’s not like he means something to him… He checks the phone, it’s six-thirty, he’s right on time.

Rasmus steps out of the limo, not bothering to take in his surroundings, focusing only on the golden glass doors that are lined up in front of him. He doesn’t close the door to the limo, like he does when he exits any car, instead, he leaves it for the driver. He takes long, determined steps, toward the building, but not too fast. Practices the blond’s words and movements in his head over and over doesn’t let it escape his mind. Feels imaginary pale hands press into the small of his back, showing him how to walk with the posture of a man with a wallet heavier than a dictionary. Rasmus has to stop himself from thinking too deeply about the other man’s hands on his body, cannot think about his warm breath washing over his neck. He can’t blush right now, a mobster boss doesn’t blush.

Inside is warm, the lights are dimmed, walls sleek and black. From the ceiling hangs five golden chandeliers, Rasmus wants to stare in awe, but he snaps out of it and moves on. He finds the elevators just like they planned, steps inside, and heads for the top floor.

Rasmus gives the name  _ Rekkles _ at the bar, doesn’t move a single muscle when the bartender’s eyes go wide. Instead, he lays down a wad of cash and orders the drink, sits down in a seat where he can see the entrance to the room. He shuffles so that his legs lay wide apart, puts one over his knee, stops the tapping of his finger against the glass as he leans back, trying to seem confident and relaxed. The money he laid out on the bar had been more than he’s seen in months, the tip could have probably bought him a whole new suit. Rasmus doesn’t take a sip, scared that if he has one, he’ll follow it with another, until three empty glasses will lay on the shiny table before him. In the back of his head there’s a constant reminder that he has to be someone else, when the doors open and five suits walk in he starts  _ living _ someone else. He doesn’t stand, doesn’t offer a hand as they settle around the table.

‘I heard you were here for business, that you got shot,’ says one of the men. He’s tall, his black hair and dark eyes are imposing.

Rasmus swallows, catches himself getting nervous, and clenches the drink tighter in his hand. ‘Do you see me bleeding?’ he swivels his drink, raises an eyebrow, ‘didn’t think so,’ he follows up with when he doesn’t get an answer.

‘But you’re right about one thing, I am here for business—’

There’s a loud bang, Rasmus’ eyes fly toward the entrance to the bar. Four men and three women walk in, all very stylish. The men around Rasmus’ table stand up, collectively forming a wall in front of him, blocking his vision. Rasmus can’t see much, only notices that the people that have barged in are not from around the area, in fact, they are not from China at all.

One of the intruders speaks in broken English, asking them all to step out into the lobby. Rasmus is about to follow the group when the tall man from their meeting puts a hand on his chest. ‘Not you, newbie.’

But Rasmus has other ideas. He falls in line behind all neatly dressed men, ducks out of visibility when one of them turns around. Out in the hallway, the air is different, here it doesn’t smell of cigars and perfume, no— out here is colder, smelling almost of nothing. The tension is high, from the back Rasmus can see almost nothing. He taps his finger against his leg, contemplating whether to open his mouth or not, but the decision is made for him as a fight ensues. The long corridor is filled with bodies being shoved against walls. Rasmus sees one woman throw one of the people from his meeting onto the floor with her bare hands. He gulps, the reality of the situation settling in. Dark hair flies past his vision, the tall man who told him to stay back flies across the room, catches his eyes.

‘I…I told you to stay BACK.’

Rasmus smiles sheepishly. ‘I must have misheard. What’s it to you anyways?’ Honestly questioning the importance of himself to this man. He puts it down to there being no deal without him if he dies, but then again, isn’t Rasmus supposed to be one of the most feared mobsters among this group in the hallway? Why would he stay back and not join? Rasmus lays notice to the pressing weight at his lower back, knows that there is a loaded gun in his waistband. His fingers twitch as he reaches for it, but something happens and Rasmus fills himself being pulled backward, something cold against his throat.

‘Everybody STOP.’ the man’s voice is loud in his ear, breath cold and smelling of smoke. ‘I will take him, and if I see you guys move a muscle I will not hesitate.’ Something cold and sharp presses harder into his skin, Rasmus fears it might be a knife, but doesn’t want to look down. The man pulls him toward something, Rasmus feels him shift and hears the ping of an elevator. There is silence in the corridor, the intruder’s group moves to take the guns off the businessmen— making them kneel before them. He wants to help but feels absolutely useless as he can’t even wriggle out of his grip. The thick steel doors close— Rasmus has never felt more fragile in his life. The elevator plays some shitty lobby music, it does nothing to ease his worries. The man behind him wiggles, pulls something out of his pocket. The knife presses into Rasmus’ skin, he hisses.

‘Oops, better stay still,’ says the man and laughs.

Rasmus tries not to let a pathetic sound past his lips, bites down on his tongue— not willing to give the kidnapper any satisfaction. The man presses some digits on his phone, lifts his arm, loosening the grip the knife has around Rasmus’ throat.

He speaks some foreign language into the phone. One that sounds like Russian, but Rasmus isn’t sure. ‘Mam cel, przeka _ ż _ Jankosowi że wszystko idzie zgodnie z planem,’ he says.

Rasmus thinks of his mother and father, wishes he’d spent every day speaking to them over the phone. That he never left for this stupid trip, that he wasn’t such a dumbass that he loses his possessions all over the world. He thinks of bright smiles at Christmas, cold breaths in the Nordic air. He closes his eyes, sees blond hair shining in the streetlight, feels the soft press of fingers into his hand as he was handed a gun. Rasmus doesn’t want to cry. Doesn’t want to think of what if’s. But his tears fall nonetheless, opening anger in him that he’s never felt before. He feels a resurgence within himself, no matter how weird that sounds, but the hopelessness falls from his shoulders as he grips the still talking man’s wrist, and bends the knife out of it, making him cry out and the phone clatter to the elevator floor.

Rasmus’s battle cry is louder as he screams in anger, he turns around, hearing the twist of the man’s wrist. C Rasmus feels dizzy as another punch hits him, this time in the gut, feels like throwing up everything he had for lunch. Rasmus reacts quicker than he can think, kicks him in the groin, wincing himself as he imagines the pain.

‘You’re gonna pay for this, you fuck—’ The man stumbles, grabbing at his dick.

Rasmus feels air push out of his lungs, becomes angrier by the second. Somewhere in his mind, he remembers a warm body pressed into his back, arms around his, helping him squeeze the trigger. Rasmus registers the sound of the elevator doors pinging open, pulls the gun out from where he has kept it hidden.

‘Leave my Swede alone, you fucking… Noobs.’ He squeezes the trigger as the man launches himself at him. The sound is deafening, his head spins, and ears ring as the man falls to the floor, clutching his knee.

‘Nice shot. Aiming for his dick or?’

Rasmus lifts his gaze from where it’s been glued to the bleeding and swearing man. The elevator doors are open. The chandeliers shine brightly down onto the man that has been occupying his thoughts for hours. The guy he’s done all of this for.

‘Hi…’ The words pass barely pass his lips as he waves with his gun. Rasmus’s eyes wander back down to the guy on the floor still swearing, registers the blood, thinks of how fucked up this entire ordeal has been as his knees give way and eyes greet darkness.

Stinging. His lips burn. Rasmus shoots up from wherever he is, feels something quickly pulling him down. His eyes move, quick and assessing— sees a pale hand wrapped around his wrist. Rasmus’s heart slows as he relaxes into his seat, the hum of the car and the warm steady hand calming him.

‘You’re safe. Sleep.’

Rasmus won’t argue that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! Next chap is NSFW and an Epilogue will follow that! Sorry if it will take some time but I have like 3 submissions on the same date.
> 
> Thank you guys for reading, and any feedback is welcome!:D


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